Joy! Joy! Joy! Now is the wonder accomplished; Out of the heart of the living grape Hath the hand of my belovéd Wrung the wine of the dream of life. Belovéd, My little son's father, Together we have given life, And the vision of life; Shall we not rejoice Who have made eternal The days of our living? Look, little son, look: The grapes glow with rich juice, The juice of the grape hath in it The substance of the earth, And the air's breath; It hath in it the soul of the vintage. Put forth your hand, little son, And take for yourself the life That your father and your mother Have provided for you. Joy! Joy! Joy! The hills are glad, The valleys re-echo with merriment, In my heart is the sound of laughter, And my feet dance to the time of it; Oh, little son, carried light on my shoulder, Let us go laughing and dancing through the live days, For this is the hour of the vintage, When man gathereth for himself the fruits of the vineyard. 1905. JOHN KEATS Meet thou the event And terrible happening of Thine end: for thou art come Upon the remote, cold place Of ultimate dissolution and With dumb, wide look Thou, impotent, dost feel Impotence creeping on Thy potent soul. Yea, now, caught in The aghast and voiceless pain Of death, thyself doth watch Thyself becoming naught. Peace . . . Peace . . . for at The last is comfort. Lo, now Thou hast no pain. Lo, now The waited presence is Within the room; the voice Speaks final-gentle: "Child, Ever thy careful nurse, I lift thee in my arms For greater ease and while Thy heart still beats, place my Cool fingers of oblivion on Thine eyes and close them for Eternity. Thou shalt Pass sleeping, nor know When sleeping ceases. Yet still A little while thy breathing lasts, Gradual is faint and fainter; I Must listen close--the end." Rest. And you others . . . All. Grave-fellows in Green place. Here grows Memorial every spring's Fresh grass and here Your marking monument Was built for you long, long Ago when Caius Cestius died. CINQUAINS 1911-1913 NOVEMBER NIGHT Listen . . . With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall. RELEASE With swift Great sweep of her Magnificent arm my pain Clanged back the doors that shut my soul From life. TRIAD These be Three silent things: The falling snow . . . the hour Before the dawn . . . the mouth of one Just dead. SNOW Look up . . . From bleakening hills Blows down the light, first breath Of wintry wind . . . look up, and scent The snow! ANGUISH Keep thou Thy tearless watch All night but when blue-dawn Breathes on the silver moon, then weep! Then weep! TRAPPED Well and If day on day Follows, and weary year On year . . . and ever days and years . . . Well? MOON-SHADOWS Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.